


The Right Word

by out_there



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-08
Updated: 2003-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:50:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the right word was lying beside you, waiting to be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Word

**Author's Note:**

> Sam/Josh. Vaguely set in S2. Cover (to be linked later) by Signe.

Sam had always loved words. He loved the sound of them, the way they could be sharpened into a fatal weapon or softened into comfort itself. They could make lies convincing, or could defend the truth. He loved the ways that writers took the rules and broke them apart; the way they used and abused words, twisted and turned them until they were an empty shell of their true meaning. Words were adopted and altered, forgotten and created, but they remained the only true way to connect one mind with another.

When he was twelve, Sam's most prized possession was his thesaurus. Bought for a few dollars, it was a second-hand paperback with yellowing pages, turned corners and red letters proclaiming "Roget's Thesaurus". He could still remember the excitement of finding it. The pure delight of having so many words humming beneath his fingers, waiting to be discovered, begging to be used.

He remembered his certainty that the right word, the perfect word, was there, resting amongst the others. The right word would make the difference between an adequate sentence and an inspiring phrase, between mediocre writing and great prose.

It had been years later, when his old thesaurus sat amongst dictionaries and legal texts, that he'd realized that sometimes there was no perfect word. Sometimes it was impossible to find a word that meant exactly what you wanted it to, that didn't have unwanted overtones and former meanings. Sometimes, you had to use imperfect language, and you compromised the idea because it couldn't be expressed correctly, precisely, accurately.

Now, his old thesaurus hid at the back of his bedroom bookcase, out of sight. Stretching out on the bed, careful not to wake Josh, he stared at the ceiling. He briefly wished that it had cracks; that it had any disfigurement, any character, anything he could count until he fell asleep. So there would be something, other than words, to classify and label in the darkness.

Even though he knew that the perfect word didn't always exist, he still searched. He often felt that the right word was out there, could almost grasp the better choice skirting the edges of his mind. It was frustrating, to feel that if he just thought long enough and hard enough, he could capture it.

There should have been a perfect word for everything. A language as complex, as complicated, as intriguing as this, should have the right words in it somewhere. He could think of the right words for his bedroom (quiet, dark, comforting, comfortable). He knew the words for Josh beside him (sleeping, oblivious, relaxed) and he knew the words for himself (distracted, restless, tired) but he never knew the right word for the two of them.

There were myriad words for what they did together. Sex, reassurance, challenge and comfort all applied at one time or another. The actions themselves were easy to name. Fucking, sleeping, eating, caring, talking, fighting, compromising. Sometimes they were loud (laughing, groaning, whining) and sometimes they were quiet (consoling, fuming, grieving) but there were always words for the actions, easy verbs that fitted into unspoken sentences.

He wanted to know the word for them, for what they were to each other, not what they did with each other. It wasn't as if there weren't enough words to describe two people involved with each other. It was just that none of them was the right word.

The word boyfriend conjured up high school crushes and college romances. It spoke of longing looks across hallways, holding hands at lunch, dates and movies and dinners. It wasn't something that he and Josh did together. It was reserved for girlfriends, for Lisa, Mandy, Mallory and Amy. It was like flirting with Donna or Ainsley, like buying drinks for girls in bars. It wasn't something they needed to do with each other.

Lover was more accurate, in a physical sense at least, but it sounded like something out of a romance novel, like a sweetheart all grown up. It seemed solicitous and just a little naive, and that didn't describe either of them.

Significant other was too politically correct, too legally binding, too committed, to describe the uncertain relationship between them. This was something that started and stopped and started again, a force as unseen and as strong as gravity, like two comets colliding. He frowned at the thought, because the simile didn't work. They didn't decimate each other in the heat of passion. Perhaps they were the outermost planets, following the gravity of their sun, their paths occasionally intersecting, before the system's demands forced them apart. That metaphor worked better, but it wasn't true. They didn't passively let it start or stop, they made it happen.

Every word that Sam could list was wrong for them, none of them fit. He could start with a fact, the fact that they were friends. There was more to it than mere friendship though, so that description was a lie. The phrase friends with benefits always made him think of an insurance policy. It over-simplified it, glazed over the needs and desires that kept them coming back, ignored the frustration and stubborn determination that drove them apart.

Suitor, suppliant and petitioner all sounded as if one begged the other, but they'd never had to ask. Admirer and beloved were too archaic, too out of date for something that never lasted long enough to become dated, but happened frequently enough to always be familiar. It was as familiar as the sound of typing on his laptop, the weight of glasses on the bridge of his nose; as well known and soothing as the naked warmth of Josh lying against him, and the sound of Josh's soft snores.

As recognizable as the gentle grunt of Josh waking up.

Josh frowned and pulled the covers up as he growled sleepily, "Watcha doing?" That was Josh's style of language, to take it and morph it into something convenient, to use it for a purpose and discard it afterwards. He didn't borrow phrases searching for the right words; he made the ones he knew serve him.

"Counting cracks in the ceiling." He whispered the alliteration, drowning out the rustle of Josh moving beneath the sheet. The morning was quiet, hushed, filled with the lull of a city asleep.

Josh shifted against him, wrapping one arm him and murmuring the words against his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged, and felt Josh's head move against him, following his skin. "Thinking about words."

Josh snorted softly, the sound slightly muffled. "Yeah?"

"I was thinking about words, about making them fit. About how they don't or how the wrong words don't."

Josh's voice still thick with sleep, whining, "Sam." It was the way that Josh used words, just enough to make himself understood, just enough to get you to agree. Unless he was bored... then Josh played with them like a child playing with balls, throwing them around, seeing how far they could travel, and trying to catch them when someone throws them back. But Josh wasn't bored, he was tired, and he wanted a point, a reason for the conversation.

"What would you call us? I mean, how would you describe us? If you just had one word."

"Us? As in, you and me?" Josh tilted his head up, staring at Sam, waiting for his nod before continuing. "Here," he said definitively, and lowered his head against the pillows.

"Oh." It was more truthful than anything else he'd been able to think of. It lacked flair and romance, but it was honest. And at the moment there was nowhere he'd rather be, even if that wasn't what he'd been thinking about. "No, I mean, us. If you had to describe what we are... to each other... if you were going to talk about me to someone else, what term would you use?"

He could see Josh's curls reflecting the small amount of light in the room, could see his closed eyes, and could almost feel his loss of patience. "Go to sleep."

"Well, that's certainly an unusual term of endearment, Josh." The slightly sarcastic tone rolled off his tongue like honey, but his smile felt real.

Josh's groan sounded real as well. "We have to be back in the office in less than four hours. Go to sleep."

Sam shifted on to his side and watched the clock count minutes in scarlet lights. Less than four hours but he suspected that even if he stayed awake and named every possible term, every phrase he'd ever heard, he still wouldn't find the right word. Maybe some things weren't meant to be named; they were better left to thrive in the wilderness between definitions. It was better to let them grow and die without classification, rather than force them into a label that didn't fit.

He sighed and closed his eyes, and tried to believe that you didn't need the right word to define, to explain, to justify the actions.

Josh slithered against him like a snake, body pressed close, and his breath shivered across Sam's shoulder. "One word?"

Josh's arm wrapped around him, tethering him to his question. "Yeah."

"Mine."

Sam couldn't help smiling at the simplicity of it. Josh's words were honest and heartfelt, when he wasn't trying to hide behind quick barbs and a smug grin. Covering Josh's arm with his own, he realized that sometimes, the right word was lying beside you, waiting to be found.


End file.
